


at the death of every darkness there's a morning

by queenwithoutacrown



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, character cameos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 11:19:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12863379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenwithoutacrown/pseuds/queenwithoutacrown
Summary: The card isn't signed, but it doesn't have to be. The scrawl of black ink on the back is too familiar, she'd recognize it in every lifetime.Did you know that bees can get buzzed from caffeine, ma'am?





	at the death of every darkness there's a morning

The Punisher is gone.

Frank Castle is dead.

Pete Castiglione is a free man.

And so the man; the shadow, the phantom, whatever is left of who he once was, vanishes.

 

* * *

 

The sky is dove grey, like a pigeon's feather. There isn't one singular cloud, it's a dense blanket of clouds, swallowing every last ray of sunlight. It weighs heavy on her mood.

Karen usually doesn't bother with the weather forecast at all these days. She leaves for the office in the dark and returns only after the sun has long sunk again. Usually the sky is nothing a background for her view out of the window. It's sheer coincidence she left early today.

She likes to bury herself in work, in the lives of other people. Because they are stories she has to tell and it's not her own. Rarely even thinks about her own life, if she can prevent it somehow.

So she writes and deflects.

Karen hopes the snow stays away from the city for a few more days; her warmer coat is still in the back of her closet and in dire need of a dry-cleaning. She thinks there must even be some blood still on it, though she isn't sure.

It all blurs together after a while, all the fights and the pain and the loneliness.

She steps into her apartment building and sheds her wool gloves. Her fingers are freezing cold despite them.

The mail boxes are overflowing with postal advertisements, even in times when newsletters and online shopping are ever-present. It feels like a remnant from the past, returning to the surface in the weeks ahead of Christmas.

Karen gathers her stuff. It's not much, only a few invoices and the same advertisements. Her gaze lands upon a postcard with bees on it, a hive full of them. It looks sweet, vibrant yellow in contrast to the dark black, something someone would put in National Geographic.

She turns the card to see which company it's from and what they want to sell, and almost stops breathing. Her breath is stuck in her throat and she lets it out slowly. Everything quiets down, the world turning with just a little less speed.

The card isn't signed, but it doesn't have to be. The scrawl of black ink on the back is too familiar, she'd recognize it in every lifetime.

 

_Did you know that bees can get buzzed from caffeine, ma'am?_

 

Nothing but those words. A fun fact, but it raises a smile out of her regardless. She inspects the card closer, for a secret message maybe, but knows she won't find anything. There's only her address and the one line of text.

Frank and his signs aren't easily understood and while she has gotten used to it by getting to know him, she is under no illusion to know the meaning to even half of them.

_Ma'am._

Karen looks at the front again, smiling at the bees more genuinely now. In small white print it reads Fenway Garden Society, Boston, MA at the edge. Her heart stutters to a halt.

Of course he'd leave the city, it was only logical.

It still feels like a punch to the gut. He hasn't even said goodbye, not even for one last time.

But she has the card, a physical reminder of his existence and she's holding it between her fingertips.

He has written the card.

Sent it.

_To her._

Boston.  
  
Karen doesn't know if she wants to call him or hug him or punch him, possibly all three of it, but it's futile. Frank isn't here, he's gone and she has no way to contact him.

She ascends the stairs to her apartment at a glacial pace, looking at the bees the entire time. She drops her keys in the small porcelain bowl next to the door and the sound echoes in the apartment.

The white roses on her windowsill are grey and wilted, like the bleak afternoon sky. They have run their course, on all accounts. They are no warning no more, a yellow light that has long stopped blinking, an empty lighthouse.

But throwing them in the trash would mean defeat, would mean giving up and well, this is a hill she's willing to die on, so the flowers stay. Bruised and broken but enduring, just like her.

Karen rummages through her drawers and finally finds some adhesive tape. Then she takes the postcard and sticks it on the inside of her apartment door.

So she can see it every morning.

 

* * *

 

After the first one it's like a floodgate opens.

Postcards arrive in her mailbox almost daily, sometimes even as much as three on one particular one. Karen doesn't even want to guess what the mailman must think of her or the cards.

The motives on the cards vary, from famous sights to simple shots of nature. Most messages are so random they could be taken from fortune cookies. Not all of them though.

 

_Oreos taste like shit._

 

_I started reading Harry Potter. I like the kid._

 

_Do you still have the roses?_

 

_You should listen to Hungry Heart._

 

_I lied. I am lonely._

 

_Learned today that I missed the ocean, but I still hate sand. Like Darth Vader. The prequels are a mess, but I can agree on that._

 

_Don't forget to clean your gun._

 

Karen listens to Springsteen. She buys a pack of Oreos and enjoys every single one of them. She suffers through the prequels. She cleans her gun. She taps all cards on her door.

They are stuck in a limbo, communicating and not at all.

It's enough.

 

* * *

 

Late on Christmas Eve, she finds a small parcel in her mailbox. It just about fits into it. It's wrapped in festive gift wrap; bright red with tiny stars, snowflakes and reindeer in silver printed on it.

A giddy thrill of anticipation overtakes her. Karen feels like a little girl on Christmas morning, bright eyed with the knowledge of the surprise ahead of her. She almost wants to rip open the present right there, but decides to sprint up into her apartment.

She tosses her coat and bag onto the couch and loses her heels along the way. There's still the half-empty bottle of white wine in her fridge, she and Foggy hadn't been able to finish when he'd been over two days ago. She pours herself a glass and sets it on the kitchen table next to the present.

Foggy had asked, about the postcards stuck on her apartment door. She had evaded his questions, claiming to like the motives. He hadn't taken them down, so there hadn't been anything to explain about the messages either.

These postcards were her secret, her holy grail. They belonged only to her.

Carefully she removes the tape, trying not to ruin the gift wrap. Maybe she should wait till the morning, but her curiosity wins. Karen tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear that falls into her face to get a clear look. Under the paper is a plastic packaging containing a fountain pen.

It's silver, with a textured handle.

It looks way too expensive to be meant for her.

She removes the plastic and weighs the pen in her hand. The metal is cold to the touch, but it feels perfect. She writes a few words on the back a flyer and watches the black ink flow on the paper.

Something else glints under her kitchen table and Karen pulls a simple USB stick from the paper. Her laptop is in her bedroom and she can't move fast enough.

The USB only has one folder on it. She clicks onto it and dozens of pictures come into view. The resolution is shit, the digital camera or cell phone, whatever he used to take them must be older than dirt.

But she couldn't care less.

Karen clicks through photo after photo, one hand clamped over her mouth.

Endless skies, the rising sun, lilac clouds, neon lights, neverending highways. It's all there for her to see. One could argue about the artistic value, but to her they belong in the Louvre.

The last picture is a selfie and she feels tears rolling down her cheeks at the sight of him. Frank looks well, though that's not exactly a feat compared to the last time she's seen him.

Blood on his head, streaming down his ear. The dust and debris from the explosion, ash and smoke clinging to his skin. Her hand on his shoulder, their foreheads touching, breaths mingling.

His hair is longer now and he has some stubble on his face that doesn't count as beard just yet. He looks more relaxed, especially with the small smile on his face.

She misses him so much it hurts.

A look at the time sparks an idea in her head, impulsive and unlike her recent self.

So Karen picks up her coat and purse, slips back into her heels and heads back into the winter night. Christmas brings out a different kind of darkness, one that doesn't scare her just as much. The soft lights make it easier somehow.

Still she'd never make the mistake of letting her guard down.

It doesn't take her long to find her destination.

For the first time in a long while, she walks into a Church, just in time. She listens to the midnight Mass, inhales the scent of incense.

For the first time in a long while, she prays.

For Foggy and Matt and Trish.

Frank.

And maybe even for herself.

Back home she cuts out a piece of the gift wrap to put it next to the postcards on her door.

 

* * *

 

The party  _Hogarth, Chao and Benowitz_  organizes on New Year's Eve is --- loud. It's tasteful, with decoration that must've consumed at least half of the budget. The other half being used for the rivers of alcohol flowing freely.

Karen knows lawyers can drink, she's been friends with Foggy and Marci for some time now, and yet. It also might have been one of the most important points on Foggy's list trying to persuade her to come. It's sheer luck she escapes a PowerPoint presentation on the topic.

In reality she had wanted to stay at home, alone. The fireworks freak her out, had last year at least; and she can imagine a better way to spend New Year's Eve than having a full blown anxiety attack in a room full of people with opinions and quick judgement.

But Foggy's eyes had been pleading and she had seen what he hadn't been able to say, so she had agreed to the invitation.

"Say about Hogarth what you want, and I mean literally, go ahead please, but she knows the good stuff." Jessica says to her and pours herself another glass of whiskey.

Karen clinks her own glass of Martini against hers. The pleasant buzz from half an hour ago slowly turns into more, but she's still far from being really wasted.

"The only upside of this. I promised Trish I'd behave, so let's enjoy it as long as she gives that conceited media mogul over there a piece of her mind."

Karen followed her gaze and snickered at the flabbergasted look on the man in the badly fit suit. They talked about anything except work and vigilantes until Trish stole Jess away apologetically.

It's not the worst party she's ever been to. Finally having an occasion to wear her wickedly expensive off the shoulder dress with the sparkling skirt isn't so bad either. But she can't shake the loneliness that clings to her like a shadow.

Icarus flew too close to the sun, drowning in the with melted wings on his back. She had wanted to fly when she'd fled Fagan's Corner, nowadays she's spitting out salt water.

She finishes her drink, gets another one. A familiar song rings out as she takes her first sip of Cosmopolitan and it takes her longer to realize it's her phone than she's willing to admit.

She finds a quiet corner and hits _Accept_. "Page."

"Karen."

_Boom, boom, boom._

"Frank." She whispers his name, almost like the prayers in the church a week ago.

"Officially it's Pete Castiglione now," he says.

"Do you want me to call you Pete?"

A beat of silence on the line. "No, don't. Please."

Around her the party continues, people crowding in front of the wall high windows to get the best look at the fireworks. They drink, eat, breathe, but it doesn't matter to her now.

"You like the cards?" he asks hesitantly.

"Very much. Thank you." She swallows hard. "Why?"

"I'm an old-fashioned kind of guy. They feel real, you know."

Karen nods, even though he can't see her. The phone call is more silence than words, a glass thread spun across miles and miles of distance.

"I'm a little drunk," she confesses.

"Have fun, I'll---"

"I'm not, it's not--- Don't hang up."

Maybe I miss you dies on both their lips just then.

The countdown starts and ends. The night sky outside explodes in bright colours, the room erupts in cheerful noises.

"Happy New Year, Karen."

"Happy New Year, Frank."

 

* * *

 

The new year is filled with more snow than the city can handle and more extra hours than Karen can handle. A investigative story about Roxxon blows up and she sleeps in her office more often than not.

Still cards arrive at her place, though fewer, as if he knows she doesn't have the mind to appreciate them. He probably does; one of the cards has her latest article glued to it with a gentle _Be careful_ written next to it.

It's only when Jennifer knocks on her office door with shit-eating smirk on her face, Karen notices how fast time passes exactly.

"I'm not saying I'm jealous, but damn, I am," Jenn says.

"Jealous of what?"

Jennifer gestures outside with her thumb. Karen moves from her chair and stops next to her in the door frame. A young delivery guy with the biggest bouquet of white roses she's seen in her entire life looks expectantly at her.

"Are you Karen Page?"

"Yes."

"Then these are for you."

He hands over the flowers, so many she can barely fit them in her arms. A small card is nestled in the blossom. 

 

_Not for your window._

 

"I wish my boyfriend would even remember Valentine's Day," Jennifer bemoans.

For the first time today she notices the date; the pink cards, the heart-shaped boxes of chocolate and the flowers on many desks. Karen had forgotten the day entirely. It warms her that he's thought about her today. She decides to ignore the undefinable feeling in her gut.

Later, after half the office has gawked at the flowers and congratulated her on her considerate suitor, she somehow brings them home unscathed. Karen deposits them on her couch table. With her heart in her throat and her phone in her hands, she starts pacing the small space of her apartment. 

Her thumb hovers over the unknown number from December 31st. It may not even be in use anymore, the habit of switching burners might die hard. But she's got to try if nothing else.

He picks up after the second ring. "Karen."

It's always just one word, just her name, but it's his voice and the way it breaks. It throws her out of the loop once again.

"Thank you for the flowers," she utters.

"You're welcome."

"I'll take your advice and won't put them in my window."

"Good."

"I'll put them in my bedroom instead."

Frank coughs and just maybe she takes some pleasure in rattling him. A full body laugh escapes her, uncoiling the tightness in the stomach.

"Anybody ever told you you're a real work of art?" he asks after he got himself under control again.

Perhaps it's the bouquet of roses or the distance, but she feels brave enough for the truth tonight. 

"No. But somebody once told me to use both hands, hold on and never let go."

 

* * *

 

In all honesty, Karen had been scared the cards might stop coming after she had all but vomited her feelings to him over the phone.

But they don't.

 

_Albus Severus is a stupid name._

 

_I'm against pineapple on pizza, but pro mint chocolate chip ice cream._

 

_Just petted a cute stray cat so black you can't see her at night._

 

_I wore a blue hoodie yesterday and it's just not the same._

 

_It's Lisa's birthday today._

 

_How many hours are you working a week with all the articles you're publishing?_

 

_My grandma used to make the best lasagna in the world. I wish I had the recipe._

 

 

* * *

 

She almost dies in May, courtesy of Roxxon.

Her ribs are on fire, cracked and bruised. Breathing hurts. She's got a concussion and a broken wrist that's getting her 8 weeks of sick leave and an equally long ban on typing on a laptop.

Ellison is unhappy with her unhealthy work habits, but what's new? He isn't going to post any of the stories she types single-handedly, he says. As if that's going to stop her once she gets out of here.

It's the combination of pain killers and adrenaline, staying in the unfamiliar hospital room, the memory of the last time she has been hurt like this that has her texting his number for the first time.

 

_Are you ever coming back?_

 

Almost, almost she types home instead, but erases the word again. She doesn't know if there's even a home left for him, if she deserves to even consider herself like that.

Karen is always lonely. Sure, the cards and the calls, they make her feel less lonely, but right now that's not a substitute for a real person.

She doesn't necessarily need anybody, never has, but it doesn't stop her from wanting.

There's no answer.

To be fair, she hasn't expected one.

In the evening, when her face is airing on the news, her phone rings and rings and rings.

She doesn't pick up.

He knows she's alive, after all.

 

* * *

 

Three days after the incident, the doorbell rings and Karen _knows_.

Like laws of nature, some things are inevitable. Like gravity, all falls down in the end.

She's not cruel enough to leave him outside, but exhausted enough to make him wait a minute or two. Eventually she opens the door anyway.

He looks well, physically. The stubble on his face is still not a beard. There's not a single visible bruise on his face, only dark shadows under his eyes. He's got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. His hands are clenched to fists, only relaxing when she comes into view.

For once she looks so much worse than him, it feels like the world shifts on its axis.

"Do you want to come in?"

Frank nods and follows her into her apartment. He closes the door behind him, then stops. His eyes take in the cards everywhere on her door and the adjoining walls. It's a mosaic of distance and hurt, feelings so deeply ingrained into their bones they are part of their DNA now.

"You kept the cards." It sounds like he's experiencing a miracle. His eyes dart from one card to another.

Karen wraps her arms around her upper body. "I told you I liked them."

"I'm sorry it took me so long to come back," he mutters.

"It's okay."

In reality the distance between them are a few feet at best, but they feel like miles. Frank shuffles his feet, his gaze still intently fixed on her door.

"I had to get my shit together, but that's not an excuse for ---"

"I know."

"I'm sorry I hurt you."

Finally, he looks up at her, with red-rimmed eyes and they are back in the elevator all those months ago when she told him to _go, go, go._

"You didn't."

"I wasn't here. You were hurt and I wasn't here."

"There's nothing you could've done to prevent this. And you're here now," Karen says and takes one step forward. "Stay. Please."

The red tape vanishes into thin air.

Frank takes the final step, closing the distance. He wraps her into a hug, so carefully. Her head sinks down onto his shoulder. She can feel tears on her cheeks and in the hollow of her collarbone. Sobs wreck her body until her ribs scream in pain, but it doesn't matter.

His hands wander from her back to her neck to her jaw. He captures her face with gentle care, his forehead touching hers. Too, like all those months ago.

Karen's gaze falls to his lips.

This time he closes the distance. His mouth is soft against her lips and it's so much better than her imagination ever was. He's mindful of her injuries, never applying too much pressure anywhere. She sucks at his lower lip, smiling at the groan she receives in return.

"Yes," he whispers against her. 

 They stand there for what feels like hours, an endless stretch of time, the postcards on her walls a quiet reminder of the distance they've overcome. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Grace - Rag 'n' Bone Man  
> Tumblr: qqueenwithoutacrown
> 
> Originally, I wanted to write some shameless post-The Punisher smut, but guess what, that went completely out of the window at the 2k mark. (But don't worry, I already opened a new document, maybe it works out in that one ;D)
> 
> This fandom has been so nice and I love to interact with all of you, so please don't hesitate to leave a comment and feedback, it makes my day. I hope you enjoyed this. As always, thank you for reading <3


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